Poetry

i.m. Kathleen Roche (1982-2018) God of all comfort, closeyour hand over the tract                                                 houses of Livingston—lay shadow on the subdividedland of Christmas lights                                                 and cul-de-sacsand minivans—withdrawthe mortar from the bricks                                                 that bind the staggeredtownhomes and crackedchimneys over white-trimmed                                                 condominiums—swallow the mailboxesdown into the loam beneath                                                 each quarter-acrelawn—pull back the plotsof mulch and patchwork                                                 sod until they spilllike sewage through the streetsand…

The sickening canal retains a gruesome beauty. Today, the weather haswaxed psychotic—chilly rainy in the morning, humid and dense as itgrew hot, sunny for a second, and now the bluish gray of photographsof Eastern Europe flows from the train bridge into the sky. On thesurface of the water, a cascade of soap scum rises to…

We feel we have felt felt. We have felt what felt we have. Havefelt. Feel. We feel what felt we felt is not what felt felt is. Whatwe have, we feel. What felt we have! Feel! Feel not what is, feelwhat felt is not. Not we, not felt. Is is is? We is what we…

Picture civilizations like sparse swarms of fireflies, space/timelike the evening air in which they’re suspended. Each bug flashesindependently, never simultaneously, randomly announcing itselfwithout regard for its distance from another or for the duration of itslight. That one there! That one is us! Doesn’t it lately seem a foregoneconclusion that the psychotic combination of our science,…

for Anna Maria Hong The master believes himself superior to his slaves. He desires comfort.He considers security and prosperity his birthrights. He prefers toignore the labor required to create his luxurious world. He often failsto acknowledge the extravagance of his environment by comparingit unfavorably to the surroundings of more prosperous people. Heignores anything that challenges…

Ooga booga jigga bigga nigga ziggurati bati boom boom tutti fruittiDjibouti mama comma no drama Obama from a llama fonana fanaRosannadanna chapati do be doobie Debbie Rebbie covfefe lemmecrammalamadingdong ching chong Chobani Thulani Donnie honeyDamiani Romani in de windy Indy bindi— do the Lindy, Cindy. Damnyou fam, you slam a ham in a cham, you…

Too easy, perhaps, to romanticize your behavior by comparing itto natural phenomena. Yes, the bird may land on the branch out ofinstinct, without thinking (though who can know for sure). The humanbeing chooses to love based on a hodgepodge of past experiences—asense of humor, shared values, similar tastes, compatibility, evencombativeness. The criteria change often, the…

I think, if I could,I’d be anything elsein this world. Mimosa pudica, my leavesclosing when touched.I’d go back to 1729, take for shelter the awfulcrypt Master kept me inwith only enough water to last between his visits,during which he spokenot to me but about me, as though I lackeda mind, an appeal forfellowship or feeling….

after Claude McKay & what’s the world to carve into your tombstonethen? Here lies a man, twenty-seven years old. He diedbut he ain’t no punk. He was one knife slicing, shit-talkin’ wick. The most lit sonofabitch who’s ever lived.He slept with Smith & Wessons under silk pillowcases.Here lies a body creased with whitewall tires.Here lies…